A company of twenty spearmen poured into the little courtyard. “We have our orders.”
Fassir pushed Tamara toward the western gate and the coach waiting there. One monk sat ready to drive the team of four, and a half-dozen others had mounted up to ride as guards. “Go, Tamara. I prepared the coach against this. Go.”
“I don’t want to leave you here, Master.”
“Deprive me of my fun?”
“Master!”
“Do you trust me, Tamara?”
She nodded. “With my life. With everything I—”
“Then ask no more questions, and do as I say.”
The intensity of his stare forced her back. She retreated from him as if half asleep. She did not want to leave, but he had given her no choice. For the sake of all people . . .
Fassir, his hands open, entered the semicircle of warriors. “Your orders end with me.”
Though she knew she should have run to the coach, and though the shouts of the other monks implored her to do so, she hesitated, hypnotized by her master. She had only ever known him as a demanding yet gentle teacher. In exercises, he would bring students to the point where they could seriously injure themselves, then release them and calmly explain their errors.
With the invading spearmen he showed no restraint, and his demonstrations of their errors did not save them from pain. The first of the invaders laughed as he rushed forward, stabbing a spear at Fassir’s chest. The old man turned on a foot, letting the spear pass between body and arm. Before the attacker could recover from his lunge, Fassir had flowed forward. He jammed his left elbow into the man’s face, then plucked the spear from him. Fassir returned to his spot, spinning the spear with the ease and abandon of a boy idly twirling a stick.
Then he cast it aside. It clattered against the courtyard’s cobblestones.
As Tamara climbed into the waiting coach, her master beckoned the rest of the invaders forward. With a clatter of hooves and the cracking of a whip, Tamara fled the monastery and yet allowed herself to imagine that her master still fought and that all was not lost.
CHAPTER 19
MARIQUE STRUGGLED MIGHTILY and succeeded in resisting the temptation to stop in the center of the monastery courtyard to bask in the ebon glow of her father’s victory. She told herself that this was because she had significant work to do. Her part in his victory—in their victory—had not yet begun. She hoped he would notice how quickly she fell to her work, advancing even in the face of the monks’ continued resistance.
She made slow her advance toward the main temple, flanked by her father’s Kushite general, Ukafa. She kept her head high, and brought her right hand up higher. Each finger had been capped with a silver talon of Stygian manufacture. Too delicate to be used to flense an enemy, they had other, more subtle uses. Sunlight lanced from them as Marique thrummed the dying threads of the magick wards that had hidden the monastery. Soon all of the monks’ secrets would be open to her.
Ukafa’s Kushite spearmen had gathered young female monks onto the temple’s top step. A few of the women had been bloodied in combat, but none seriously, as per her father’s instructions. Demanding restraint of the warriors had doubtless cost some lives, but the dull ends of spears and the flat of swords had been enough to herd the women together.
Marique was equal parts lioness hunting and empress victorious. Of the dozen women gathered above, three were too young and two far too old to be the one she sought. She did not segregate them, however, since they appeared the most nervous. Terror is contagious. Making an example of one would inspire the others to be more compliant, and that would speed her task to completion.
She chose one of possible candidates and approached. The woman shied from her, cringing halfway down to a grovel, but Marique caught her chin in her left hand. She raised the woman up, then tipped her head back. Her right hand came up. She stroked a talon’s needle-sharp point over pale flesh, drawing a single drop of blood.
Marique caught the blood on the talon, then delicately deposited it on her tongue. In an instant she knew this was not the one she wanted, but she allowed herself to savor the taste. The girl did have promise, she had power, but not the right type, nor in sufficient quantity. And then there is the quality of it. Far too sweet, too light—an offering of weak tea when one sought strong brandy.
Marique smiled. “You are not the one I seek. Go.”
The monk stared at her in utter disbelief, then ducked her head in thanks. She darted past Marique, keeping her eyes downcast. Which is why she never saw Ukafa’s headman’s sword come around. The curved blade took the woman at the base of the skull, shearing through her neck cleanly. Her head slowly spun, her body sagged. Her severed queue writhed like a decapitated snake for a moment, then the woman’s head, eyes yet open, bounced down the stairs and rolled up against the body of another dead monk.
The remaining monks drew back a step, but the wall of Kushite shields prevented escape.
Marique paced before them, her silver-sheathed fingers undulating back and forth sensuously. “I look for one among you who is special. In her veins runs the blood of an ancient and venerable noble line. She is descended from the last of the Royal House of Acheron. She is here. I know this. I can smell her. I will taste her. She is among you, and if you have any compassion for your friends and companions, you will make yourself known.”
The women glanced at one another, confusion and terror warring on their faces. One, one of the younger ones, bowed her head. “We do not know who you seek, Mistress.”
Marique smiled and opened her hands. “There. Honesty. Was that so difficult? Your courage and honesty deserves a reward. Go.”
The girl looked up at her. “Truly?”
“Of course.” Marique bowed her head. “Go now.” She turned and spitted Ukafa with a glance. “Do not molest her. She is free to go.”
The Kushite giant frowned, but did nothing as the girl raced past and down the steps.
Of course you don’t understand. Subtlety had never been something her father’s subordinates appreciated. They had joined him because of simple things. Her father had been stronger than they, and had appealed to their personal vices. He’d promised Ukafa dominion over Stygia and the Black Kingdoms and ceded the western half of the world to the Brythnian archer, Cherin. Lucius he had tempted through gluttony and doubtless promised Remo to fashion him into a handsome man.
Marique doubted, even if her father gained the powers of a god, that such a transformation would be possible.
But she had learned that subtlety amplified power because it provided access in ways people did not suspect. Yes, the murder of one girl instilled fear—compounding the terror the slaughter below had already ignited. But letting the other girl go free inspired hope. In absence of hope, one might willingly die to defend a friend or a principle, but hope proved corrosive to such bonds when the life of one was to be weighed against the life of another.
Marique looked down the line of monks and caught something in the eye of another. Of the right age and acceptable coloring, the woman brought her head up as Marique approached. Terror retreated from her face almost entirely. She threw her shoulders back and, in profile, reminded Marique of Acheronian queens she’d seen commemorated on old coins.
“You. You are the one.”
The woman lifted her chin, her lower lip quivering just a little.
Marique stroked the monk’s throat, then tasted her blood. Her eyes closed as the flavor played on her tongue, for at first this one did seem right. Rich, vital, the blood carried strength. This woman had power and knew it. She had tapped into more arcane lore than her masters likely ever imagined she could. And her lineage traveled back along straight lines. She was perfect . . . almost.